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Write. Eat. Rinse. Repeat.

I have a dream.

I heard a story that shook me so deep I kept it with me. This hand me down fairytale shaped me… it was too big for my 12-year old self then, but I only hoped that one day I would grow into it. That one day I’d be old enough and wise enough and lucky enough to live it.

This hand-me-down dream was love.

The kind of love you see in the movies and read about in fairytales. The kind of love that stands the test of distance and time. You know, the kind of love that doesn’t exist.

How do I know? Because I TRIED that shit. I fell in like at 13, had my first boyfriend and my first kiss only for him to break up with me 7 months later because his mom didn’t like him being on the phone for so long. I fell in love for the first time at 15, saw the sun in his eyes, felt like home in his arms. Only for him to cheat on me 3 years later, in another state, on our anniversary.

I fell in like again and again and again until I finally fell in love again. I got my fairytale and thought, “THIS IS IT.” I thought, “Today is my One Day. I’m old enough and wise enough and lucky enough to live this crazy dream. I finally grew into this hand-me-down love. Finally.”

But where did my happily ever after go?

You see, I loved so much it hurt. And it hurt so much that I decided to love less. Until the day came that I could no longer love less because I was loveless.

And here I am.

With a dollar and a dream I have to start over with a hand-me-down heart. I have to take it back to square one and hope that when I decide I’m ready to try again, I’m wise enough and old enough and lucky enough to make it better than a hand-me-down dream.

I still dream of love. Not of a love thats too big for my jaded heart or too strong to tear down my walls. Not of a hand-me-down love. Simply, a real love. Hands down.